


i’m what’s left when children go to war

by fernfuneral



Series: though it feels like we were built from the same dirt [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Five Stages of Grief, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Not Really Character Death, fair reminder tubbo is an unreliable narrator, it has the major character death warning because tubbo believes tommy is dead, no beta we die like tubbo thinks tommy did, only part of my ideas bcuz im waiting for him to stream, the usual, tubbo goes thru it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:21:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28132335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fernfuneral/pseuds/fernfuneral
Summary: “The ground beneath Tubbo’s feet, crusted with ash and debris, felt as if it was tipping. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, legs locked as his head craned upwards.Surely not.”or,tommy is dead (he’s not), and tubbo is coping (he isn‘t)
Relationships: Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit
Series: though it feels like we were built from the same dirt [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2064120
Comments: 5
Kudos: 131





	i’m what’s left when children go to war

**Author's Note:**

> general warnings! this fic consists of tubbo battling with the idea of tommy’s death, and as a result there are some things you should avoid if you are sensitive to them, such as panic attacks, dissociation, general discussion of suicide as well as some very vague glorification of suicide (as an unreliable narrator, tubbo’s own thoughts do not reflect my own on the topic of suicide and how to view someone’s suicide)

The ground beneath Tubbo’s feet, crusted with ash and debris, felt as if it was tipping. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, legs locked as his head craned upwards.

Surely not.

The pillar scraped the sky, splitting the horizon in two, and Tubbo felt as if someone had gripped his lungs and crumpled them like paper.

He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t leave like that, wouldn’t leave his discs behind. It was unthinkable. His head spun, bile stinging the back of his throat. 

Tommy wouldn’t leave him behind, would he?

A small, traitorous part of his brain whispered that one of them had been left behind weeks ago, and it wasn’t Tubbo. He pushed it down, ignored it, silenced it. He did what he had to do. Tubbo had done what he needed to. For the good of L’manburg. For the good of both of them.

Perhaps, had he been a different man, he would have believed it.

As it was, his knees buckled beneath him. Sharp points of rock and wood dug into his legs, scraping his skin, but they were pushed aside in favor of attempting to drag air into his chest. 

Tubbo’s hands shook, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt until they bled white, skin stretching across bone. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t _breathe_.

His body shook as the grief hit him, the realization. It was a tidal wave. Tubbo couldn’t move, frozen as his brain processed what he was seeing. He wasn’t crying. He didn’t know why he wasn’t crying. It felt as if someone had reached into him, scraped him raw, and the pain was unbearable, but he couldn’t cry.

Perhaps it was for the better that he was unable to, because a part of him whispered that if he started crying now he’d never stop.

A bird was singing somewhere in the forest. It was soft, upbeat. Familiar. 

( _Chirp._ That part of him screamed, buried within him. _It’s singing Chirp._ )

Something in his chest cracked. The world was still turning, continuing as if there wasn’t something horribly wrong with the fact that Tommy _wasn’t here_. It was unfair, it was callous, and Tubbo found himself cursing whatever governed the earth.

The air around him was thick, and all he could focus on was the spike of land that caressed the sky and the overwhelming feeling that something was wrong, and he was entirely alone.

Tubbo had always thought that he’d die first.

Not that he wanted to, not that he’d seek death out, but a part of him still burned, fireworks eternally incinerating in his bloodstream, and he knew he could only go so much longer. Tommy had been… untouchable. He was supposed to be the one to outlast all of them. He was the hero. Tubbo was never going to be the last one standing, and he’d made his peace with that.

Maybe it was foolish, to think Tommy invincible. But he had to. Tubbo had to believe that Tommy was strong, because if he wasn’t, how was Tubbo supposed to be anything more than weak?

And that was the kicker, wasn’t it? Tubbo couldn’t be strong without Tommy there to show him how. He’d tried his hand at it, and it’d led him here. 

Tommy would find him pathetic, if he could see him now. 

Tubbo wondered how he felt, as he fell. Wondered if he smiled, as wind stung his skin and the ground rose to meet him. Perhaps he was scared. Selfishly, Tubbo hoped he wasn’t. Tommy would’ve hated to die afraid.

When he imagined it, turned the thought over in his head, it was nothing short of glorious. He couldn’t see Tommy going out in any other way.

Seeing it in his head, Tommy dropped as the sun rose. The air would be tinted gold, a thin mist laying over the ground, earth and sky blending together as he gave his final stand. He’d grin, as he fell, exhilaration coloring his face, eyes shining, and he’d be as powerful in death as he was in life. Technoblade had called Tommy Theseus, once. As Tommy jumped, he would become Icarus. To fall, here, was not defeat, but a victory. Nobody would take Tommy but himself. He’d escaped his prison, and he’d touched the sky.

Of course, Tubbo knew, it was probably nothing like that. But all he had seen of Tommy before he died was pain and he would not begrudge his memory glory.

A wave of grief crashed over him, dizzying in its intensity. He’d never see Tommy again. Never again would they sit in comfortable silence as the soft strains of music from one of his discs floated around them, eyes locked on the sunset.

His throat constricted, sob wracking his frame, but still Tubbo could not bring himself to cry. 

He remembered the day when they’d sat together, watching the horizon, and he’d been so sure Tommy would ask him to leave. So sure they could’ve left all of it behind, the wars and fighting, the dying. But he hadn’t. And Tubbo knew he’d never regret anything more than not building up the courage to ask Tommy himself. But running was a pipe dream. Tommy would never have been able to resist the pull of the discs, Tubbo knew that now. And he would have followed Tommy back, as always. The yes man. The sidekick.

As it was, at least one of them, the better of them, had managed to escape. 

(Tommy wasn’t escaping through death, Tubbo knew, though he wouldn’t admit it to himself. He was just trying to rid himself of the weight ever-present on his shoulders.)

Tommy had been his best friend, even when they were apart. To know that he could have prevented this, if he was a little more selfish, a little less eager to sacrifice _something_ for the sake of L’manburg, made his throat tighten. He was exhausted.

The sun was shining on the back of his neck, warm, and it was awful. It should be storming. The skies should be weeping, mourning. The air should be as heavy as it felt tearing through his lungs. It shouldn’t be like this; the sun high in the sky, skies blue. The weather was an injustice to the magnitude of what had happened here. 

His face fell to his hands, shaky as they were from the strain of gripping his shirt, and he squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his knuckles lightly against his eyelids. As he worked on slowing his breathing, on forging forwards against the tide of mourning swirling in his chest, he thought of Phil. 

Did he know? Had he seen Tommy’s home, seen what was left of it? Tubbo heaved a dry sob, curling his hands into fists, dull fingernails scratching as his palms. Would he have to tell the father to bury another son, so soon after the first?

(Once upon a time, Philza had been the closest thing Tubbo had to a father. He barely felt worthy of being near him now, after everything.)

The weight of what he’d done today hit him then, knocking the air out of his chest. He’d shot his own citizen. He’d shot his f- Phil. And Tubbo knew, deep down, that there was a part of him that still raged. That burning boy with firecrackers in his blood that wanted to grab Phil by the shoulders, scream at him to _look at what he made! How could he try to steal that from him? How could he?_

But he couldn’t. He had a responsibility, and allowing anger to consume him was a dangerous path. He’d made that mistake before, and now he was here. Here, head in his hands, desperately avoiding looking up. 

There was so much work he had left to do. 

A funeral to plan, a body to find.

He didn’t move, legs glued to the ground. The grief was receding, and all Tubbo felt was empty. Bereft. He drew in a shuddering breath, exhale ragged. It was time to stand up. He needed to stand up. 

A minute passed. Two. Tubbo sat silently, face resting on his fists, until he was jolted to awareness by the feeling of something warm on his hands. Slowly, he uncurled his fists, looking on in detached curiosity as blood sluggishly seeped from crescent shaped punctures on his palms. He’d been gripping his hands so tightly that he’d broken the skin.

His body felt as if it wasn’t his own. Tubbo could feel himself standing, pain twinging in his legs as he unfolded from his position on the ground, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel anything. It was as if he was watching someone else pilot his body, and he was so _tired_. The desolation was still there, and Tubbo wasn’t sure it’d ever leave. Tommy had been too important, too much. If he never stopped mourning him it’d be too soon.

Tubbo’s legs were moving. He hadn’t noticed, lost as he was in his melancholy. Like a newborn fawn, stepping into the world for the first time, he stumbled into the crater that had been Tommy’s home. It was eviscerated. The ash coated everything, rising in the air as Tubbo tripped further into the crater. The hollow feeling in his chest grew deeper as he walked, panging in his gut like he’d been starved for days.

It felt as if someone had taken the dagger-sharp slice of his emotions and dulled it to a buzz, a constant ache. He couldn’t bring himself to feel concerned, raking the terrain with his gaze, searching for any sign of life, of who Tommy had become while he was exiled. It was easier this way, he reconciled as the part of him that protested was pushed aside. If he wasn’t impeded by grief, he could deal with it better. There was no time to fall into hysterics, to allow himself the luxury of pain. He needed to be strong.

He had to be, now that Tommy was gone. He had to.

His hands were still bleeding. The trickle had reached his fingertips, hot on his skin, and Tubbo lifted his hand to eye-level, indifferent to the sharp sting of the disturbed ash wafting into the scrapes. The blood was cutting sharp tracks through the dirt that’d been caked onto his palms, and he watched as it dripped into the debris beneath him, splattering onto the toes of his shoes.

A tribute. A part of him was being left behind here as well, in this wasteland.

His search for anything of Tommy’s in the dust was as futile as he assumed it would’ve been. He wondered what he would say now, if he could see Tubbo. Hands bloody, covered in ash. He’d probably make it a joke. Say something that would make Tubbo laugh, even when he feels like his world is crumbling.

The thump of his heart in his chest echoed in his ears, and a part of him ached. Despite the numbness, the pain of thinking about Tommy stung, and he could feel the crashing storm of grief threaten to overwhelm him again.

He shoved it down, turned his back on it once more. Tommy deserved better than this. Deserved better than Tubbo falling apart in the ruins of Tommy’s former home.

He squared his shoulders, eyes rising to fall to the horizon line, and defiantly stared down the pillar stabbing through the sky. He would not be weak, not here, not now.

Swiping his hand on the fabric of his pants, he began the trek back to the smp, blood streaked on his skin and golden sun on his face.

He needs to have a funeral.

**Author's Note:**

> augh. ouch. ah. probably gonna get killed by canon in like an hour but it is what it is :-P. might write a sequel depending on what happens whenever tubbo streams next who knows. 
> 
> hope y’all enjoyed this !
> 
> title from “pray” by the amazing devil


End file.
